


Slow Burn (Enough)

by burnitbright



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Gen, M/M, Magic Reveal, Magic Revealed, Pre-Slash, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnitbright/pseuds/burnitbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick oneshot of how Gwaine and Merlin finally discuss the magic issue, focusing on the effects of keeping secrets. Rating is for the suicide attempt (which is mentioned, but does not occur in this work) and a depiction of violence that, while short, is there. </p><p>Set sometime between series/season 4 and 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Burn (Enough)

It starts off with a mistake.

Merlin is seated on the floor in his room, legs spread before him and a book between his knees. He is thumbing through one of Gaius’s books about the history of Camelot, trying to find a particular story involving a goat he’d wanted to show Gwaine. The other man is lounging on Merlin’s bed, one foot dangling off the side, hands tucked behind his head. 

He kicks lightly at Merlin, the toe of his boot brushing against the younger man’s side. “I still say it never happened” he drawls, lazy in his insistence. 

Merlin laughs and swats at the intrusion. “It’s here, just let me find it!” He rolls up his sleeves and leans forward, studying the words intently. 

Something catches Gwaine’s eye, and he frowns, sitting up. He looks again, before asking, quietly: “Merlin, where did you get that?”

Merlin, unaware of the change in the temperature of the room, doesn’t even look up. “Where did I get what?”

Gwaine swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, stretching slightly. He pads over to Merlin and crouches next to his friend. Merlin’s sleeves have fallen back to his wrists, and Gwaine has to roll them up to find what he is looking for. 

Merlin glances down at where Gwaine thumb rests, and he freezes. 

Gwaine is looking not at Merlin, but at an angry pink line that runs, thick and straight, from Merlin’s palm to his elbow. The scar is clearly formed over a deep wound, and the severity of this combined with its placement does not escape the knight. Merlin tugs the sleeve down again, pulling his arm to his chest as he does so. He grimaces at his own stupidity, at the careless removal of the protection of his sleeves. 

_Idiot, idiot._

“Let me see”. The voice beside Merlin is gentle, but it’s not enough to stop the fluttering of Merlin’s heart. He swallows hard and tries to brush Gwaine’s hand off. 

“It’s fine. Ah, not as bad as it looks, anyway. It’s old and healed.” He sends Gwaine a practiced smile, but it falls flat. Gwaine is not to be deterred. 

“If it’s fine, it’s not going to hurt you for me to take a look.” 

It is clear that this is not going to be ignored, as other secrets have been. 

The world swirls for a moment as the white-hot seeds of panic bloom in Merli's chest. He had not prepared for this conversation, had not prepared to be caught. 

He is keenly aware of the distance to the door now. He could make it, maybe, and magic the door to jam behind him. It could win him enough time to run.

But run where? Gaius’s chambers are no safer, and if he leaves-if he leaves, he loses control of the situation. There is no guarantee the knight will not will not gamble for Merlin's life at the expense of a secret. Gwaine is the type of friend who would burn their ties to the ground if he thought it meant Merlin's scar would not repeat itself.

"Merlin." Gwaine's voice is firm. He is looking at Merlin like the younger one is a wild deer. He makes eye contact, and Merlin swallows. The warlock wonders if his fear is transparent, or if his sudden silence is being taken for refusal. The way Gwaine is looking at him suggests the former. The ginger manner in which the knight touches him now -moving one hand with exaggerated motion, sure to be seen, and resting it carefully on Merlin's shoulder- confirms it. 

“Merlin, it’s alright. It’s alright.” He repeats it and only it, again and again, until the words become a lullaby. The panic in Merlin's chest wilts with each refrain.

“I didn’t-I’m not-” Merlin babbles. He doesn’t know what he means to say. The lullaby gives way to gentle shushing as the hand on his arm moves to wrap around his waist. With a gentle tug, he is pulled back into Gwaine’s warmth. The knight's other hand pushes back the damp hair from Merlin’s forehead. He rests his chin on Merlin's shoulder, his breath in Merlin's ear.

"It's alright, we don't need to do this now. It's alright." 

The whole set of actions is oddly paternal (even maternal) for a man so versed in war. It’s no less comforting for that, Merlin finds. 

The conversation he is dreading does not happen now. Instead, his eyelids heavy with a new and deep exhaustion, he settles back against Gwaine, and lets the gift of this one night of grace wash over him.

* * *

He wants to avoid talking about it. He _needs_ to avoid talking about it. Unfortunately, when Gwaine wants something, he is harder to shake than a dog from a bone. And, despite allowing Merlin one night of peace, it is clear Gwaine intends to talk about this, and probably to fix it as well. 

Merlin isn't sure what he's scared of, but he knows he doesn't want to have this conversation. So he sets out to avoid it for as long as possible. Forever, he allows himself to think. 

It’s easy enough to avoid most of their normal meetings. Merlin takes a different route through the halls to get to Arthur’s chambers. He cajoles another servant into running to the kitchen and misses the lunchtime chatter he usually shares with Gwaine. There are no stolen bites in the hall, no laughing whispers of “Gwaine, really, I need to take this plate to Arthur before you finish _all_ of it”. There are no accompanying complaints or jokes about Arthur’s waistline. 

Some things are harder. Being busy, he finds quickly, is the best defense. He’s always rushing somewhere, whether or not he needs to be. When he passes Gwaine in the halls the first time, he is delivering medications. The second time, returning for more. The third time, he is on an errand for Arthur. He has a running list of places he needs to be or people he must find _this instant, you understand?_ , all weapons kept at the ready.

He is constantly on guard, and it works right up until he returns to Gaius’s for dinner. 

And of course, Gwaine is already there, seated on the bench, as Gaius furls and unfurls the knight’s arm. 

“Honestly, it doesn’t hurt” Gwaine is saying, “It just startled me for a second, that’s all”.

“Nonetheless” Gaius reprimands firmly. He repeats the action twice more, than nods curtly. He shuffles off to find something that is to aid in swelling that is not yet visible.

When Gwaine sees Merlin, standing frozen in the door, he smiles. It’s a bright, genuine occurrence.

“Hurt it in practice. Well, _someone_ tripped and landed on it. Don’t tell anyone that part though” he adds with a wink.

Merlin smiles back wryly. It is impossible to resist the pull of this familiar banter. “And just what” he asks, voice soft, “were you doing on the ground at practice?” 

Gwaine purses his lips. “I will have you know that I _earned_ that break” he defends, as Gaius returns. 

There is more small talk, as the injury is tended and the treatment, an ointment, is explained. It quiets when Gaius determines he needs to attend to some errand before he goes to bed. Merlin volunteers to do it instead, and is waved off. 

Merlin is not sure if Gaius is excusing himself to see a cook the old man has been flirting with, or if Gaius has already been asked to leave by Gwaine. Both seem plausible, and regardless, Gaius leaves. 

Alone now with Gwaine, Merlin feels his skin prickle. His mouth feels suddenly dry. He cannot remember where the water is when not in the pot on the fire. 

“So.” Gwaine starts his voice artificially light, and Merlin’s stomach sinks.

“Yeah” he manages to respond, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Do you want to tell me where you got that, or should I start guessing?”

Merlin glances down at his wrist. The darker flesh is clear, even in the dim light offered by the fire. 

“I think it’s obvious where it came from.”

His friend sighs, and all of the lightness of their early jest is gone. He rubs his face tiredly, and then leans back, eyes cast to the ceiling.

“We need to talk about this” he says quietly. “You know I wouldn’t make you talk about it if I didn’t think it mattered.”

Merlin steps forward, out of the doorway. This is new territory. 

“It’s old, really.” It sounds false. Even as he speaks he can hear the lie in his own voice. With a single look, Gwaine calls that bluff.

“I-it’s _healed._ It’s not a problem I have anymore, alright?” Merlin snaps the last part, hoping the tone will speak for him.

“Yes, it seems to have healed rather well considering you haven’t had it more than a week, at best. With skill like that, you’ll surpass Gaius before you know it.” The sarcasm sinks into the air, heavy. There is a moment of silence as it settles.

“What do you mean” Merlin asks slowly. He feels as if he is walking along a failing bridge, and the wrong step well sending him tumbling into dangerous waters.

“I mean that I saw your arms last week and they were both fine. You-” Gwaine falters, then wiggles his fingers lamely at Merlin. “You know. Fixed it. It doesn’t mean it’s fine.” He tries to add a joke, but doesn’t get the chance.

Had Gwaine been a hunter and not a fighter, he might have noticed the signs of a nervous animal. The slow, halting way Merlin moved, the way his eyes darted at every tiny movement in the room, the rigid line of his jaw. It Gwaine had been a hunter, he would have noticed this and offered the equivalent of a sugar cube to lure Merlin forward again. But he was not, and more importantly, he had not considered that Merlin might perceive him to be a threat.  


And so he is unprepared when Merlin meets this reveal not with thankful relief but the harried flight of a startled deer.

He is on his feet before Merlin has cleared the room, because this, this is what he learned as a fighter, how to catch and hold and chase, more the hound that flushes out the deer than the man with the arrows. He has a grasp on the back of his friend’s tunic before they can round the corner.

Again, Merlin finds panic growing and twisting in him, hooking tendrils into every part of his body. His toes tingle with pinpricks of heat, and his head feels feverish with panic. He tries to surge forward, briefly, and feels the tug of cloth like an anchor..

“I didn’t mean it,” Gwaine whispers, hurried, “Merlin, please I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.”

If it was anyone else holding him there, ensnared, Merlin might not have stopped struggling, but the rush of apologies is enough to cull the roaring fires in him to impatient, choking flames. He shifts nervously, but doesn’t pull away.

They stand like that for a moment, eyeing each other cautiously. They don’t move to return to the room until the sound of footsteps reaches them. 

The decision to return to Merlin’s room is made for the sake of privacy, and is a concession Gwaine hopes will make Merlin feel more at ease. If the way Merlin is hunched is any indicator, the gesture has failed. Neither of them sits. 

“So” Gwaine begins again, starting the same conversation anew. The repetition, as if none of the previous events had occurred, shocks a rush of laughter out of Merlin. It tumbles out of his mouth, unchecked and loud, until his eyes begin to water. He waves his hand, dismissing the unasked question, and tries to regain his poise. By the time the laughter has stopped, the tension is gone. 

“Sorry,” he gusts, flashing a watery smile, “Sorry.”

Gwaine shifts, unsettled by the sudden change but unable to hide his relief. 

Merlin wipes his eyes and coughs. “Sorry” he says again, “Go on”.

Gwaine clears his throat. He looks suddenly unsure of what he means to say. After a moment, he speaks. 

“When did this happen, exactly?”

“Oh, um, a week ago is almost exactly right, actually.”

“Right.” Gwaine responds slowly, holding the word in his mouth as he considers the information. “Do you want to tell me why?”  


Merlin tilts his head and looks at the other man as if he’d just been asked how to find the physician’s chambers. “You already know.”

“This is about the magic?”

“Most things are.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve had this –you do have this, right? It’s something you have, not something you learn? –for years. What’s changed?” 

Merlin smiles again. It’s a small smile, but it’s real. “Sometimes” he answers, suddenly shy and ducking his head. “For me, it is.”

“Ah.” 

“I just, um, the incident…” he trails off, looking back toward the door. 

_Oh._ And just like that, it all makes sense. 

They had been on a normal patrol, and Arthur had come along with some excuse that really meant he was going stir crazy in the castle. They had happened upon a village, in which a jeering mob was crowded around a writhing mass.  


It had been a man, frail and old, with papery skin and a jagged landscape of teeth and red gums. He had sobbed wildly as the blows came down, and the sound was that of an animal, innocent and desperate. The sickening thud of the strikes had echoed in Merlin’s ears, like the sound of a door slamming shut.

The old man had been convicted, without trial, of hexing another man’s cows. And while the knights had pulled the townspeople off of him, and Arthur, red-faced and livid, had admonished them for acting without law, the old man had died within the hour. They had returned to the castle that night and disbanded, solemn and without the usual jests and cheer. It was an unambiguous defeat. Sorcerer or not, justice had not been done. It was a failure, one they all seemed to carry equally.

Now the imbalance in the pain’s weight is clear in Merlin’s face. Of course it had hurt him more. It seems impossible to have ever thought otherwise. 

_Of course._

“Merlin” Gwaine begins, only to be cut off yet again.

“I know." A pause. " I know.” 

They are quiet again, until Gwaine speaks. His words are low and careful, as if they disguise another question, or worse-more worry. 

“You know I would never, ever let anyone hurt you."

“Gwaine-” And now it’s the knight's turn to interrupt.

“No, I mean it.” He stands, and approaches Merlin without hesitation. The other man is looking away, seemingly entranced by the chair in the corner of his room. To his credit, he does not shy away from the advance. Gwaine has to crane with neck to meet Merlin’s eyes, but there is relief in them when he does. Emboldened, Gwaine cups Merlin’s hands in his own and pulls them to his chest, rubbing his thumb idly over delicate wrists. 

“I would never” Gwaine says softly, forcefully, his eyes locked on Merlin’s, “ _ever,_ let anyone hurt you”.

“Alright” Merlin chokes out after a moment, his blue eyes wide and childlike. The words are followed by another whisper, like a prayer. “Alright”.

The silence that comes is companionable this time. 

* * *

And it’s not over. There is no denying that the issue is not settled. The scar remains on Merlin’s arm, undiscussed, and the pale expanse of his arm threatens to erupt in pink lines, scarred rivers on some morbid map. 

Merlin has not yet asked how Gwaine knew, has not worried himself sick over who else might know. He hasn’t mentioned the nightmares he’s had of being the old man in the circle, his friends’ faces above him, the way he hears the thuds of their strikes even when he is awake.

Gwaine has not asked if Merlin has tried this before. There are many questions he has not asked yet. There are boundaries to break down, and enemies Gwaine is not sure he can keep from Merlin’s gates. 

But there is also this, this closeness he has earned and will fight to prove he deserves. There is the way Merlin’s breath coasts over his cheek, and the way Merlin cradles his hands in Gwaine's, as if he will fall apart without Gwaine to hold him together. There’s the way Merlin leans in to rest his forehead against Gwaine’s, the way his eyelashes flutter shut and the pulse in his wrist slows, just slightly, as Gwaine’s catches. 

There’s this, and for once, it’s enough.


End file.
